Tea and Sympathy
by stineblicher
Summary: What would have happened if, instead of telling Raoul the story of the Phantom, Madame Giry had talked to another person?
1. Chapter 1

**Tea and Sympathy**

by Stine

**One**

He held my wrist in a deadly grip as I stumbled behind him through endless, dark tunnels. Then, there was a faint glow, and we approached a translucent surface. He pressed a mechanism by the wall, and firmly made me step over the frame of the mirror in my dressing room. I sank to my knees, overwhelmed by despair. I knew I couldn't leave things like this, that I had to do something, to talk to him, but the words stuck in my throat in an impossible knot. And just when I was about to turn around, I heard the click of the mirror closing behind me. I hid my face in my trembling hands. Ripping, terrible sobs erupted in the middle of my chest.

And suddenly, there was a pair of soft but firm hands holding me by the shoulders and I was aware of a kind voice making shushing sounds, comforting. That only redoubled the pain in my chest. I just wanted to be left alone.

But the hands didn't relent, and I was gently urged to my feet, led to the settee and compelled to sit. A blanket was spread on my lap, a shawl across my shoulders, and a cup of warm tea was placed in my hands. I couldn't bring myself to drink from it. The voice, which until then had been gentle, turned stern, commanded me to look up. I did, and found myself pinned by Madame's icy eyes. Those eyes had made me do most of the things in my life. They had forced my body through another series of stretches when it seemed I was about to collapse, had made me concentrate and begin again when my wobbly legs seemed unable to master the spins and my fuzzy head unable to remember the steps. They had made me keep my stitches even when sewing the laces of my pointe shoes… They had made me get out of bed when Papa had just died and the world seemed an empty, cold, grey place. So I drank the tea, breathed deeply, and blew my nose, just like she commanded. But when she asked what had happened to me, I couldn't bring myself to relive the terrible moments that had just passed. I tried, but soon the tears blinded me and the sobs stopped my words.

And then the door burst open and Raoul was suddenly kneeling by me, taking my hands and saying so horrible, terrible things… And the room filled with people, dancers, singers, managers, seamstresses, stagehands and stern men with handlebar moustaches and blue uniforms. They all were staring at me, and Raoul just kept on ranting on … Until Madame Giry, God bless her soul, cast everybody out of the room, closed the door with a slam and bolted it.

I could not cry anymore, it seemed as if I had come to the end of tears. But as my sobs quieted, I was left aching and hollow. Madame Giry didn't say anything else. She guided me to bed, took my nightgown out of a drawer, silently helped me out of my clothes and tucked me in bed. She silently combed my hair back with her fingers, as she had done so many times when I was a child. As I closed my eyes, I welcomed the oblivion of sleep, and wished it would swallow me forever.

Unfortunately, morning came, and I woke up to the pale rays of a winter sun. The light was strangely cheerful against the white covers, and my eyes filled with tears as I remembered the darkness and dampness of the cellars. I buried my head in the pillow, but the door soon opened, and Madame Giry entered with a pitcher in her hand. She left it by the washstand and told me to get up and get dressed. She would be back shortly. It would be advisable to lock the door and not answer to anyone but her. She closed the door behind her. I sat up in bed, swung the covers to one side and stood up.

The floor was icy and the water was chilly, but not chillier than the basements. Trembling, I donned my clothes, sat on the settee and stared at my numb fingers. There was a knock at the door and Madame Giry entered with a covered plate in her hand. I shuddered when I remembered I had not locked the door. She regarded me sternly, but instead of the reprimand I expected, she only handed me the plate. I uncovered it to find steaming porridge. As I gobbled it down, I realised how hungry I was. I scraped the bottom of the plate and laid the spoon aside with a sigh. Madame took the plate from my hands and gave me a cup of tea from the kettle she had been preparing while I ate. She sat beside me and had a cup herself. It felt as if we were enjoying a Sunday afternoon together. The only thing missing was Meg's chatter.

"Well, child. Now it is time you told me what happened."

The cup clattered against the saucer as I put it down. I was happy the cup was more than halfway empty, or I would have spilled the tea all over my dress. I felt my bottom lip quiver. Madame's warm, soft hand covered mine, steadying it.

And so, staring at our joined hands, I told her. Everything.

I was crying again as I finished my tale, but now the ripping pain in my chest had subsided. So had the feeling of shame, the wanting to crawl away and hide. I could wipe my eyes with the handkerchief Madame gave me. I could ask questions.

"Who is he, Madame? Where did he come from?"

Madame sighed. Her face was so sad that she looked a decade older.

"He has lived at the Opera most of his life. Just as you have, child."

"But where did he come from?"

Madame looked down. She then drew back and grasped her knees. She took a deep breath. She seemed a swimmer who is about to plunge into deep waters. Then she exhaled quietly.

"It was many years ago, Christine. I was still a dancer at the company. And there was a travelling fair…"

I gaped as Madame told me about the boy in the cage, the escape, their secret meetings in the bowels of the Opera, how he had taught himself to read, to play music, how he had built his home deep underneath. The more she told, the more questions I had. My head was spinning as I thought of my Angel, of our encounter, of Raoul and the terrible things he had said, of the gendarmes. I seemed to be in the centre of a terrible whirlwind. I would need decades to sort it all out. I buried my face in my hands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Tea and Sympathy**

by Stine

**Two**

The coming days were miserable. I had to go to the Commissariat and talk to the gendarmes. Raoul kept accosting me every time I stepped out of my room and all of the staff in the Opera House regarded me either with a sick curiosity or with ill concealed pity. Whispers and pointing fingers followed me wherever I went. Terrible rumours were flying around, and my honour had been compromised.

And my Angel had disappeared.

It still frightened me to think about the way he had yelled at me, the violence with which he had gripped my wrist to take me back to my room. It made me uncomfortable to remember the dark tunnels, the secret corridors in which he dwelled and to know that at any moment, at any place he could be watching me, hearing my every word. I had always dreaded to think that I could, because of my laziness or clumsiness, displease my strict teacher, and some of that fear lingered at the back of my mind every waking moment now.

But at the same time, that fear was mingled with other feelings. Guilt was one of them. Instead of thanking him for everything he had done for me, instead of being grateful for the hospitality he offered at his house, for the beautiful dresses and many trinkets he had given to me that same evening, I had been utterly rude to him, tearing away the thing that shielded him from the world…

And when I thought about the dark tunnels again, about his sparkling eyes and quiet manner, about the many, many candles he had lit just for me, something else sprung inside me.

Madame had said he had lived in those tunnels most of his life. I remembered with a shudder the cobwebs and the drafts, the water dripping down the walls, the smell of dampness and moss and decay. And the darkness. Despite all the candles he had lit, it had been dark.

I absolutely disliked the darkness.

And suddenly I was angry.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair that my talented teacher, with the quick brains and the beautiful voice and the genius to compose haunting melodies, the one who made me laugh with his vocal impersonations of la Carlotta and Piangi, had to live down there in those damp, dark, cold tunnels. It wasn't fair that someone like him, quiet but caring, with the patience to listen to my every petty woe, had to live all alone, with no one to listen to his complaints, to ask him how he was, to cheer him up when he was feeling low, just as he had done countless times when I was but a little frightened girl. Whenever the other girls laughed at me or called me names, whenever Madame Giry had reprimanded me, he had listened to me. He hadn't said much, but it had always been a comfort to know that he was there, that I could tell him everything.

And now that I had many things to discuss and to sort through, he wasn't there to listen. I couldn't voice my thoughts aloud to try and clear them.

It wasn't fair, I thought as I sat, all alone, in the darkness of my dressing room, and nibbled at my nails, and waited for him to appear.

But although I waited and waited, and nibbled and nibbled, he didn't call out to me. By the sixth day, my fingertips had started bleeding. I had enough of pointing fingers and interrupted conversations wherever I went. I had enough of Raoul waiting to leap on me at every corner and offering to whisk me away. I had enough of silence.

It occurred to me that if my Angel didn't call out to me I could call out to him.

It occurred to me that I would have to call out to him, since it was me who owed him an apology. An apology and an invitation, one that would compensate for the disaster of my visit to his home.

I certainly couldn't invite him to stay the night over in my dressing room. There was barely any place for myself in it as it was. I couldn't offer him a romantic ride on a boat, or fine wine, and I certainly couldn't play the piano for him, but I could invite him over for tea…

Tea as an offer of peace.

Tea and conversation.

That sounded very nice to me, who was already starved for his company.

I could only hope that he also missed me a little bit, and that he hadn't given up on me… and that he liked pain au chocolat.

So that same afternoon, after surviving an endless rehearsal, after having put up with Carlota's tantrums, after having successfully evaded Raoul, I sneaked out of one of the side entrances of the Opera, and headed at a brisk pace towards my favourite bakery. Clenched in my sweaty palm were a few coins, the last of my monthly allowance. I had thought long and hard about it, and had come to the conclusion that simple pain au chocolat wouldn't do.

I had a lot to apologise for.

The situation merited —at least four or five raspberry petite gateaux, with whipped cream, the most expensive, and the most sinful pleasure a chorus girl could wish for.

I hoped my Angel would appreciate the effort.

Besides, he also needed some fattening up.

I felt a stray tear cross my cheek as I remembered how gaunt his silhouette was, how his elegant clothes hung from his thin frame. I wondered how and where he obtained his food. Did he go out to the markets and cooked his food down in the cellar? I thought it highly unlikely. Did he go to a restaurant or a café nearby? I shook my head. Silly girl. The idea was absurd. Did he steal it from the kitchens, then? Did Madame Giry take food to him, as she had done for me the morning I came back from the cellars?

Those two last ideas made some more tears trail down my cheeks. I wiped them away in irritation. If I didn't stop crying I would have to face the Angel with red, puffy eyes and a stopped nose, and then he would abandon me altogether. Better to focus on practical things. Besides the gateaux, I was also in need of milk, and lemon, and sugar.

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Author's note: This is a very short story... It only has three chapters. The next one will be posted tomorrow. Thanks to all that have reviewed!

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	3. Chapter 3

**Tea and Sympathy**

By Stine

**Three**

Nervously, I put the spoon on the tea tray and smoothed out my skirt. I double-checked that everything was fine. I had covered my table with my only tablecloth, and arranged cups, saucers, dishes and silverware on top of it. The petite gateaux looked glorious in the porcelain dish I had borrowed from Madame Giry that morning. Beside them, a tiny bouquet of violets in a glass was the only adornment of the table.

The tablecloth was fraying at the border.

I hurried to my dresser to get my sewing scissors. I cut out a thread and hoped the fraying was not too visible.

Suddenly, everything looked poor and scarce. I sighed, left the scissors on the dresser, smoothed my skirts with another nervous movement and turned towards the mirror.

I was glad I had filled the kettle to the brim with water. Half of it must have evaporated and I had already sung throughout almost every song I knew before I sensed a presence behind the mirror.

How long had he been standing there?

I stopped singing, looked down at my hands and cleared my throat. I prayed my voice wouldn't waver.

"Angel?" I called.

There was silence.

"Are you there?"

Another deafening silence.

"Angel?"

A strained whisper:

"Don't call me that, Christine. I'm no…"

Elated, I smiled at my image in the mirror.

"Angel! You came!"

I clasped my hands, covered my mouth with them to keep from laughing out loud. I was so relieved.

"Don't…"

"I'm so glad you came!"

I knew interrupting somebody was the rudest of things, and never before had I dared to break in upon whatever my Angel said, but I was so relieved he was there, and was talking to me that I couldn't help myself.

"I was so afraid you wouldn't come… I thought maybe you couldn't hear me, wherever you were… You see," I chattered on, wringing my hands. "I wanted… I wanted to invite you over to tea, that is, if you are not busy, reading, or playing or composing… or such."

I bit my lip after that last sentence. I could hardly say "stalking around", or something like that, and frankly, besides reading, playing an instrument, composing or stalking around, I didn't know what else he did with his time.

"Here," I said stepping to the side, so he could see the table. "I bought some petite gateaux, and some violets, and I have milk and lemon, because I didn't know what you take with your tea. And the kettle is already boiling…"

I stopped at that, waiting for him to say something, but there was nothing but silence.

I nibbled at the side of my thumb, looked again into the mirror.

"Would you come and join me?" I asked wistfully.

"Join… Join you?"

I nodded.

"For tea…"

And then, a terrible idea occurred to me:

"Unless you'd rather have coffee…"

Drat, I didn't have any coffee. But probably I could borrow some from Madame Giry. I was already walking towards the door:

"If you'd rather have coffee I can…"

"No, Christine."

The sudden, firm statement stopped me in my tracks.

"No?"

What did he mean by that?

That he didn't want coffee? That he wouldn't have tea with me? That he didn't want to see me anymore?

My heart fell to the pit of my stomach.

He cleared his throat.

"Are you sure… Are you sure you would like to have me join you?" the uncertainty of his voice made me want to cry.

I nodded.

"Well… then."

The mirror swung open, and there in the entrance he stood, in perfect evening dress and immaculate white shirt, even skinnier than I remembered. He was very pale, a deep dark shadow underneath the eye on the uncovered side of his face.

My heart went out to him, and my hand followed. He stared at it for a brief moment, as if he couldn't believe his own eyes. Slowly, he lifted his own hand, shying briefly when both hands came into contact.

His fingers were cold and calloused, undeniably real.

I felt an overwhelming rush of relief when I closed my hand around them. I tugged at his hand, and he crossed the strange threshold that was the frame of my mirror.

"Here," I said gesturing at the settee. "Make yourself comfortable. I will prepare the tea."

I released his hand, and he stood there, wide eyed.

I smiled an uncertain smile, bit my lip and turned around towards my little furnace. I poured the water in the teapot, put on the lid and turned around again. He was sitting at the edge of the settee, back ramrod straight, hands folded over one knee, one on top of the other. I took the teapot and put it on the table. When I sat next to him, he stiffened.

Was he so unaccustomed to having anyone near him? I opened my mouth to ask, but suddenly it occurred to me that he didn't know about Madame Giry telling me his story. Would he like to know that I knew about the horrible things he had gone through? Definitely not. He would most likely feel humiliated.

And there and then I decided I wouldn't tell him anything about it. I wouldn't ask about his past. I would wait and hope he'd someday feel comfortable enough with me, would come to trust me enough to tell me… In the mean time, I would watch, and stay silent, and learn.

But there was something I didn't know about him which would be necessary to know. He had just told me that he didn't want me to call him "Angel", and I felt "Maestro" wouldn't do, either. It was too formal.

"So… what is your name?"

He looked at me with wide eyes for such a long time that I thought I had somehow offended him again.

I looked down at my hands, which seemed to have developed a will of their own and were already clenching one another.

"That is, if you want…"

"Erik."

I looked up, into his eyes. I noticed they were steely grey.

"Erik?"

He nodded. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

"Erik," I repeated.

I smiled, held out my hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Erik."

I knew that was not supposed to be a ladylike gesture, but it somehow seemed right at the moment. It was frank, and open. And it was certainly a pleasure to meet Erik at last, although it had been such a long time since I had known my Angel.

He stared down at my hand, as if it was a serpent that would bite him. I started to feel embarrassed, lowered my hand a bit.

And then he grasped it in a firm handshake, one so firm I thought he would pulverise my fingers. He shook my hand up and down, and released it almost as suddenly as he had taken it.

"The pleasure…" he cleared his throat. "The pleasure is mine, mademoiselle."

I giggled. He had never called me mademoiselle.

He stiffened immediately, and clenched his teeth.

That frightened me. Had I wronged him again? I quieted immediately, and took the teapot, hoping that he wouldn't rise and stride over to the gaping hole that was still open on the wall.

"Would you care for some tea?"

He nodded, staring at his folded hands, and I hated myself. Couldn't I sound more like a stiff-nosed, frivolous girl? How would he ever want to talk to me?

I poured the tea in the cups while I thought that he had listened to me all these years, and nevertheless he still wanted to talk to me. He had come through the mirror, hadn't he? So the only thing I had to do (besides apologising, which I didn't even know how to begin), was to talk to him like I had talked to my Angel. Which was who he was, anyway.

"I bought raspberry gateaux. Have I ever told you they are my favourites?"

He nodded, his sight still fixed on his hands.

"Do you like them as well? I didn't know which pastries you like best, so I thought…"

I fell silent when I realised I was sounding stupid again.

He bit his lip, and there was another silence. I waited, the teapot still in my hands.

"I don't know…" he muttered. Then he inhaled sharply, and looked up, directly into my eyes with an intensity that startled me. "I have never tried them."

"No?" Was the only thing my mouth uttered.

He shook his head. I blinked.

"Well, you should…" Oh, I wanted to slap myself. This was going worse and worse.

And then I noticed the faintest smile curving one side of his mouth. I smiled.

"Help yourself," I said, nodding towards the tray. "Would you rather have milk or lemon with your tea?"

He looked into my eyes, and the steely grey softened to a soft, bluish grey as he smiled a wide, frank smile.

"Lemon," he answered.

And after a beat:

"Thank you… Christine."

His smile was brighter than the stage lights had ever been.

The End

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This story is dedicated to HD Kingsbury, who found a title for it. 


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